Threads

the web was lain before me

and all I did was climb.

I climbed upon the thick rope

clear and color-coded

that home life set for me.

eat, talk, study, play games, and learn.

look good in teachers' eyes.

scale the rungs, one year at a time,

keep going til the next.

and then, at some point, the rope thinned,

and thinner threads emerged.

Much farther there was yet to climb,

but now I had a choice.

I could choose to continue school,

or I could choose something else.

the most structured of the pathways felt

the most comfortable of all.

another set of rungs to climb,

these spaced farther away.

yet climbing was the thing to do,

all I needed to do was scale.

and up and up the rope I went,

and caught sight of other threads.

others chose work, others chose art,

others chose partners and a family life.

I stuck close to the thread I knew,

I'd worked on it for a long time.

and once atop it, I once again felt,

that the paradigm was changed.

No longer clear ladders to climb,

but single threads instead.

and none of them were quite the same,

the choice was hardly defined.

These thinner threads were woven

of social patterns and desires.

Those I desired sparkled brighter,

and guided me somewhat.

I chose one of them, the closest one,

and going up, found further forks.

No choice was clear here, so all I did was

guess and grasp at strings among the fog.

and so desires kept guiding,

shining on this one thread or that.

and as desires one by one found resolution,

their sparkle waned and withdrew.

yet all along I kept climbing,

for that's the one thing I knew to do.

and with fewer threads to follow each time,

the path seems to disappear.

in recent days, I've noticed

I have no more threads to climb.

I grasp around, searching for more,

and find nothing but void.

A spider leg or two of mine

still clutch a few fixed threads,

desires still unmet.

but my climbing direction has disappeared,

I feel I have nowhere to go.

And it seems like I, obedient spider,

climbed up eager to the top,

wanting to see what was there.

I see it now, and realize

it's the same space as was back there,

nothing else is at the top.

And that to continue, I have then a choice:

I can declare my path over, sit,

and wait for my body to die,

or for shiny threads to pop up around me,

again.

I've tried this way a few months now.

I find a stagnant body and mind,

a dreary life of waiting void.

Or I can make my own path,

shoot it out of my own self,

and weave further out into the void

in any direction and shape I choose.

The human spider who weaves the path,

stringing together this place and the next.

This new option feels like the natural blossom

of the life I've til now trodden.

But I've only learned to be a climber, not a weaver,

and while I know that change is due,

I keep refusing to weave,

and stagnate in rebellious discomfort

atop my personal hill.

the unfinished threads I still hold onto,

they also impede my way,

for I still use some legs to hold them,

and cannot use them to weave

the new with full strength,

and I refuse to build with any less.

pride and insult

When praise comes your way,

sincere and unsought,

startle not, like a lifeless leaf

carried by a sudden wind

nor like the housefly,

scavenger, mistrustful

of anything that approaches.

if the wind surprises you so be it,

but hold the ground you stand on,

and allow the praise to flow,

to be brought inside and processed

to be digested as it seeks.

let it unwrap its contents

so you can see the truth it holds.

let it reach your steady mind

to see and understand.

dare to unwrap it,

lest you see only its wrapper

and become thoughtlessly flattered,

proud, inflated, or you shut your ears

to the message that comes to you.

accrue no obligation nor flattery

see what is.

When insult comes your way,

sincere and unsought,

startle not, like a snake caught off-guard

who strikes back like a spring released

nor like the cornered dog

who only conceives

of the fight and the flight.

if the sting surprises so you be it,

but hold the ground you stand on,

and allow the insult to flow,

to be brought inside and processed

to be digested as it seeks.

let it unwrap its contents

so you can see the truth it holds.

let it reach your steady mind

to see and understand.

dare to unwrap it,

lest you see only its wrapper

and become thoughtlessly angered,

hurt, resentful, or you shut your ears

to the message that comes to you.

accrue no reprisal nor misery

see what is.

outpour

why does the outpour

of one's sexual desire

for the other

when truthful, transparent, non-invasive

can trigger sharp emotions

a shame in the desirer

a fear in the desired

and a sudden tensing up of spirits

from newly-born mistrust?

must such desire be hidden always? I think not.

while mutual tension lives veiled between the pretending parties,

like a white curtained sphere that grows and grows more evident

unable to find an outlet in the world,

it cannot be seen

nor admitted

nor accepted

nor discarded.

it must be opened up and seen

by someone

before it can develop

or die.

Villain fear

Why does it feel like expressing my true desire transforms me into a potential villain in her eyes?

Fear, mistrust. Difficulty to separate the identities of the desirer and the chooser. Difficulty for her, and difficulty for myself.

How can the chooser choose something independent of desire? What guides him, if not the pulls of the bridle by desire and fear?

Knowledge of consequences. Experience. Understanding that the other is a version of my self.

These factors help prevent damage, by providing constraints, by restricting. Can they also provide positive guidance?

No. They do not evoke active attraction, but rather call the self to remain still, unmoved by the unending waves and currents the world throws upon him.

And what, when this is achieved?

We will know only then.

afar

from afar

switzerland

guatemala

human

future

past

that job

that partner

that friend

Switzerland

seems an idyllic majesty

with grandiose snow-capped peaks

punctual society,

and prosperous finances.

Up close, I come and see

those peaks are just as inaccessible

(or rather just inconvenient) to climb onto

as those in my homeland.

The punctual culture veils

the stress, discontent,

and disconnection among the peoples.

And amidst the average façade of prosperity

live those addicted, isolated, penurious,

vagabonds from one roof to another,

unseen and unheard by the punctual commons around them,

and the opulently wealthy,

needless of income, needless of work,

with time too large for their needs,

who gorge to fill it with wants.

I come to see the same dirt and rocks line the many roads,

the same chipped paint upon the signs,

and unending chores of garbage and bills

amidst the daily grind.

The same pavement one wearies to walk on,

the same bountiful, unreachable banquets of sky,

which one also desires to reach

yet once there, one finds out

it is but cold water and air.

What is afar can look precious

because it is very not here.

But once we arrive at that we yearned,

that here holds the same rough edges

and gaping, aching voids that nudged us

to leave the place we first left.

for what hurts us are not the unwhole forms we find

(and all forms are unwhole),

it is our discontent thereof.

It persists further than the forms we love and hate,

for it is closer to us than they.

I seek the future yearning redemption,

believing a secret between now and then must set me free,

and forget that that desired point of learning

must become a now to arrive there

and requires that I pay attention

now.

I seek the past and its sepia pictures,

for I keep the relics that I still believe valuable

and believe them to be what I am made of.

When I go back and look

for my long-buried treasure

(or regret),

not only have the tides washed away the shape of the past,

its treasure I already consumed time ago,

and the last morsel, in me undigested,

is what still makes me grasp for more where none is left.

The life of the human

seems rich from afar

a maze of adventures

a sea of calms and storms.

direct control of the building materials

to shape the dreams I desire.

Yet once inside the pains hurt strong,

the efforts are wearying, the choices are endless,

and the calms have too much ennui.

Desires detract and blow us astray,

doubts drench our joy and make us slip,

the winds threaten to capsize our ship,

and anxiety keeps us looking away.

The storms batter and beat us down

while we still learn how to work the sails.

When we lose our bearings and direction disappears,

we learn to read and trust the skies.

And when the vast distances seem endless and without aim,

we remember why we came, step by step if must be,

and breathe on, steady and with trust.

We can only continue here.

The afar's a mirage that up-close, disappears.

The pains and the boredom continue with us,

and so do the joys when we think they are lost.

No harbor is a perennial oasis,

and no storm is eternal doom.

The ship is here and the waves are rolling in.

We must learn to sail.